


I Want Strings Attached

by suchfun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dogs, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, sterekoutdoors, sterekweek2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 18:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchfun/pseuds/suchfun
Summary: Any dregs of self-respect Stiles thought he had have gone up in smoke in the wake of Pretty Man turning to leave, because he looksfantastic. Better than Stiles could have hoped to imagine. Add that to the obvious intelligence, the ease with which he bantered, the infuriatingly sexy/sexily infuriating cockiness, and the tenderness he displayed for his dog and he's pretty much the most perfect person Stiles has ever met.Great. Good. It is so awesome to know that the complete package apparently exists. Stiles lives for knowing things like that about unattainable, super-hot dog park people.Really.





	I Want Strings Attached

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 3 of Sterek Week 2019 - Outside. Happy Sterek Week, everyone!
> 
> Title from The Kills - Heart Of A Dog.
> 
> For reference, this is what I imagine [Stiles' dog](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b3/95/fa/b395fa202fbf5d37e06db32f6d1ea22c.jpg) looks like.

"And that," Tall Blonde says, "is why you should really change her collar. It's blue. That's a boy colour." She frowns over at Stiles' dog like Zephyr is causing her physical pain. All Zeph is doing is frolicking, aka doing exactly what a _dog_ is supposed to be doing at the _dog park_. Stiles has no idea why Tall Blonde is even talking to him. "What if people think she's a boy? What will you do then?" She raises her eyebrows smugly, like she's just raised the most salient of salient points. Like no one could ever even hope to try and refute her logic.

Little does she know, Stiles _lives_ to refute logic.

He squints at her. "Okay, so. Like, you know colours don't have genders, right? Only people can have genders, assuming they want one."

She blinks at him. "Excuse me?"

"Also," he continues, because if college was useful for not much else, it certainly did an amazing job of providing him with even more ways to combat people's bullshit, "gender roles are just a social construct. Blue is a primary colour in the RGB colour model. It lies between violet and green on the spectrum of visible light. It's pretty. But that's all it is. You understand that, right?" 

"Um." _Um_. She's a master debater.

"Especially for dogs, like, they're dogs. Dogs. You get that, right? I wouldn't be shocked if you didn't, but please tell me you at least get that. Like, she," he gestures to his gentle, possessive yes, but mostly sweet eight year old Labrador X Golden Retriever, "isn't gonna care what kind of collar she gets, as long as we still go walkies. Dogs can't even see colours."

Tall Blonde frowns. She seems to recognise there was some sort of insult directed towards her, but it's obvious she has neither the brains nor the balls to engage. "Um. Okay?" She glances about herself for her dog—a purebred poodle in a fairy costume, of fucking course—and quickly makes her way out of the park, refusing to look back at Stiles.

Stiles looks down at Zeph, who's just finished her first round of sniffing and is in the process of writhing around on the grass, probably in something gross that Stiles doesn't wanna know about. He's nudging her head away with the toes of his sneaker, about to ask her if she's done her business yet, when an amused, leading voice sounds from behind him.

"For someone so eager to insinuate someone else is an idiot, that was a pretty idiotic statement."

Stiles stiffens. "Excuse me?"

"They're not really colourblind."

"I know that," he snaps, spinning around. "I'm not an amateur, I know they can still see shades of blue and yell...ow..." He trails off. He doesn't mean to, but it's just what he does around Pretty People. He trails off, falls off, pisses off, takes off, runs off and puts off alllllll the Pretty People. It's a skill, honestly.

The Pretty Man (so very _very pretty_, dear _God_) raises an eyebrow. It's magnificent. The most majestic eyebrow Stiles has ever seen, only to be rivalled by his other eyebrow. 

Stiles quickly looks away from the eyebrows, but the rest of his body is just as distracting, because he's wearing some sort of jogging attire, and there are _leggings_ involved. Man-leggings—_meggings_, Tall Blonde would probably call them. They look _excellent_. There are so many leg muscles on display. Stiles didn't even know that many leg muscles existed. Or that they would be so attractive. 

He gulps. Pretty Man's yellow Labrador stares up at him judgmentally from between Pretty Man's legs.

Stiles envies Pretty Man's Labrador.

A dog, though! A safe topic of discussion! Stiles knows the intimate details of everyone's dog at this point, he can talk for hours about a—

"Dog!" Stiles exclaims, then shakes his head. "You have one! I mean, what's? Name, what's your dog's name. Is what I mean."

"This is Mr Peanutbutter," Pretty Man says seriously, leaning down to stroke a large, tender palm over his dog's head. Mr Peanutbutter wags. He's sticking close to his owner, regarding the park with suspicion, but also looking like he's desperate to join in with the other dogs. It makes sense—Zeph is rolling around with her good friends Twix the chocolate Lab and Hawn the golden retriever now, and even Stiles has to admit it looks like fun.

"First timers?" Stiles asks, all casual-like, definitely not sounding desperate for deets.

"New in town. He had friends at our last park. It just takes him time to adjust."

Stiles nods. "I get it, me too."

Pretty Man looks back up at him, seeming subtly amused. "Which one is yours?" 

"The perfect angel rolling around making everyone else do all the work." Stiles gestures to where Zeph is rolling around on her back, letting Twix jump on her chest and mouth at her neck. There's a lot of teeth involved, and many an uninitiated human has panicked at the level of perceived aggression in their preferred method of play, but it really is Zeph and Twix's favourite game. They could go for hours, if Stiles and Twix's owner Isaac could spare the time. Or could stand to be around each other for longer than two minutes.

"Look PB, more retrievers," Pretty Man murmurs, gently flapping a golden ear. "I bet you'd love frolicking with them." PB wags again, staring adoringly up at his owner, but makes no move to play.

"He'll get there eventually," Stiles says, trying to sound encouraging. He's not sure he lands it, if the raised eyebrows Pretty Man sends his way are any indication.

He nods though, and gathers PB's leash, hooking it onto his collar again. "He's looking a bit overwhelmed. We'll try again tomorrow." He gives PB a few firm pats over the ribs. "One step at a time."

"Good call, any more than that and you'd be like, jumping, and like, falling probably, ass over tits. At least I would be. Because I'm not— Not that I have tits, no more than any dude who only works out like once a week, like I have nipples, and like, firm-ish pecs but I don't… have…" Stiles finally forces himself to trail off.

Pretty Man's eyebrows are very high now. 

"So, I know nipple-talk isn't usually first-meeting fare, but I just had to pull poop out of Zeph's ass like five minutes ago, and I think I'm still high from the adrenaline rush. Feel free to ignore everything I'm saying and then ignore me further should we ever be unfortunate enough to see each other again."

Pretty Man nods slowly. "Well, I could do that," he says, wrapping PB's leash around his hand and taking a step back, "but I have a very boring job, and listening to you embarrassing yourself is the most entertaining thing that's happened to me in days."

"That's really sad," Stiles says automatically, trying to discern if—is there flirting happening here? Is this flirting? He's notoriously bad at picking up on this shit, his friend Heather had a crush on him for three years in their mid-teens and he didn't figure it out until she surprise-kissed him on her birthday. He flirted with a samples dude at Costco once, but it was an accident and he didn't realise until he got home. Every relationship he's had, even the strictly sexy ones, he's just kind of fallen into, but… this could be flirting? Or maybe even pre-flirting? He smiles just in case, and makes sure it's the charming one and not the scary one. "I think PB needs to step up his game, if you're that severely desperate for entertainment."

"I'm sure he'll get right on that," Pretty Man says. Then he pauses, looking at Zeph and back at Stiles before saying, "Just to be clear, Zeph is your dog's name, right?"

"It most definitely is."

"That's good." He nonchalantly leans down to adjust PB's collar, not letting Stiles see his face, but Stiles could swear he's smirk-grinning. "Gives the poop story some more context."

And. Stiles. Cringes. "Dear god."

"I just thought you were a really committed friend," he says. "You know, the kind you want with you when you're up shit creek." He's definitely smirking, so proud of himself it should be a turn off but really isn't. The god-awful joke should _definitely_ be a turn-off, but it turns out any dregs of self-respect Stiles thought he had have gone up in smoke in the wake of Pretty Man turning to leave, because he looks _fantastic_. Better than Stiles could have hoped to imagine. Add that to the obvious intelligence, the ease with which he bantered, the infuriatingly sexy/sexily infuriating cockiness, and the tenderness he displayed for his dog and he's pretty much the most perfect person Stiles has ever met.

Great. Good. It is so awesome to know that the complete package apparently exists. Stiles lives for knowing things like that about unattainable, super-hot dog park people. 

Really.

∪･ω･∪

"There's a super-hot person at the dog park!" Stiles announces, barging into Lydia's room, not knocking because that's not a thing he's ever remembered to do.

Zephyr follows him in, sizes up Lydia's bed, glances over at Lydia, then settles on the floor beside her feet. When they shared a crappy apartment at Stanford neither Stiles nor Lydia gave a shit about what happened to their furniture, but once they got back to Beacon Hills that changed. They moved into a cottage owned by a friend of Lydia's mom, and since Lydia both knows the owner and works from home a lot, they felt obliged to take care of it more and got some better furniture. Zeph is mostly an inside dog, and there are piles of blankets for her to sleep on in both bedrooms and the open plan kitchen-dining area, not that she always uses them. The house also has really good fencing, with a small front yard and a decent-sized backyard for her to spend some time in, when it's not too wet. Or too hot. Or too windy, because wind is sometimes scary to an anxious canine. 

Lydia smiles down at Zeph, giving her a few fond strokes down her back, before turning a glare on Stiles. "Knock much?" 

"I still don't know what you think I'll catch you doing. You masturbate in the bath and you're always either doing your hair or doing some impossible equation. You never do anything interesting." He might be whining now, but only because it's maybe possibly a dream of his that one day he'll catch Lydia doing something nefarious and be able to hold it over her head forever. The way she does with the five thousand things she's caught him doing.

"That's not the point. The point is, I've asked you to do something, and by continuously, purposefully disregarding my request you're showing how little you respect me." 

Stiles throws himself down on her bed, burrito-ing himself in her blue cashmere throw that's probably worth more than all of his possessions put together. "Hey, I respect you a lot. I never even bring up that you masturbate in the bath."

"You can keep trying it," she says breezily, turning back to… what looks like hair maintenance _and_ some fancy way-advanced math, "but you're not going to embarrass me. No masturbatory practices are more embarrassing than the time I caught you trying to use my curling iron as a dildo." 

Stiles sighs. "We're all familiar with the dildo/hair implement mix up, Lydia. It was hilarious, I'm a barely-functional wretch of a human, I get it." 

"It was more gross than hilarious, and mostly my favourite part was when you swore me to secrecy and then drunkenly divulged everything to everyone anyway. But fine. If you want, we can move on to the time you accidentally parodied There's Something About Mar—" 

"Excuse me!" Stiles interrupts loudly, throwing himself to his feet as well as he can whilst still encased in cashmere. "I came to share important news with you, not to be insulted like we've gone back in time to high school Stiles-and-Lydia. You don't deserve to hear about anyone at the dog park, not even the ugly ones. Come on Zeph, we're leaving."

He waits. There's no scrabble of claws. He looks down. Zeph's head is on Lydia's feet and Zeph is asleep. 

Lydia hums smugly, but doesn't look away from her hair/equations. 

"Fine," he says, wrapping the throw tighter around himself. "But I'm taking this with me!"

"That colour really suits you," is all he gets from Lydia, as he's closing the door. "It brings out your eyes."

"You bring out your eyes!" he yells, even though she's right, and stomps off to his room. 

∪･ω･∪

Lydia isn't awake when Stiles gets up the next morning, so he half-heartedly tries to be quiet while organising Zeph for her morning walk. He fails, as usual, but at least now when Lydia complains he can tell her he tried and only be half-lying.

Their morning expeditions are generally pretty short, just on the lead around a few blocks, which is enough for Zeph to expel some extra energy and do her morning business. There aren't many people out before 7am in Beacon Hills, not like at Stanford, where Stiles and Lydia spent all four years of undergrad and two years of post-grad, but he prefers it this way. He doesn't have to pay as much attention, and he's much less likely to get stampeded by joggers/cyclists/panicked under-caffeinated students.

When they get back, Lydia is up but barely functional. She's at their very tiny dining table, slumped over a very dark mug of coffee, a very expensive iPad and a very thick textbook. She's still in her silk pyjamas and her hair is in messy plaited pigtail things. She blinks blearily at him. "Alleged hot person at the dog park: dog park hot, or everywhere hot?" she croaks, seemingly out of nowhere, but Stiles is used to this. When she's deep in her math-haze, she'll have half a conversation with him and then demand to finish it the next time they speak. 

Stiles had to retrieve something unknown yet disgusting from Zeph's mouth while they were out, so he heads over to the sink as Zeph chows down on the breakfast Lydia helpfully put out for her while they were gone. "Definitely everywhere hot," he says, raising his voice over their unnaturally loud tap. "Like, anywhere, everywhere, he wins all the sexy motherfucker awards."

"Hmm." She takes a sip of her coffee, scrolls an inch further down her news app, and turns back to him. "You're being vague on purpose aren't you? Since when do I have to probe for a description?" 

Stiles shrugs. He wipes his wet hands on his pants, because Zeph chewed up the last tea towel and he keeps forgetting to buy another one. "Tall, dark, handsome? Thick fingers, thicker eyebrows, dorito torso. Funny, witty, smart. His dog adores him and he adores his dog, so like, basically the perfect specimen."

Lydia makes a disbelieving noise into her mug. "At the dog park, though? That seems highly unlikely."

"Super hot people own dogs too," Stiles protests. "You kinda co-own Zeph. And Chris Evans loves his dog more than most married people love each other."

"Zeph is your dog, I only tolerate her because you pay rent," Lydia lies, like Zeph didn't literally _just_ go directly to her after finishing her breakfast to lay on her again, and Lydia didn't resettle in her seat to make Zeph more comfortable. "Besides, I'm quite certain Chris Evans is either a hoax or a mass collective hallucination. I refuse to let you use him in an argument." She flips her hair and goes back to reading.

Her free hand snakes down to rub at Zeph's ears, but Stiles wisely doesn't comment on it.

∪･ω･∪

Three disappointing, lonely days later, Stiles finally sees Pretty Man at the dog park again. He nearly crashes the Jeep in his excitement, and Zeph gives him a very judgemental look from the back seat.

"Like you can talk, you eat poop," Stiles grumbles. She's already distracted though, and nearly tears off his arm trying to get into the park. 

There are two benches in this dog park, one at each end. Pretty Man is slouched on the bench closest to the entrance, the one Stiles usually avoids like the plague because a) it's directly in the sun and the day Stiles remembers to put on sunscreen is the day the sun explodes, thus rendering the sunscreen ineffective anyway, and b) Old Polish Dude who doesn't understand personal space or that Stiles cannot speak Polish is usually stationed there. But _today_. Today, not only is Old Polish Dude not around, but it's late enough that a few errant trees are casting a shadow over the bench, which is _kismet_, surely, and also: Pretty Man. Pretty Man, who is looking even prettier than last time, assuming that's even possible, dressed more casually in basketball shorts and a t-shirt with Ray-Bans tucked into the collar.

Stiles would endure more than a few inappropriate touches and a little burnt flesh just to sit next to him, pathetically enough. Especially when he looks up as he hears the gate clang shut, and he not only slides his phone back into his pocket, but there's also— 

A _smile_. A tiny little almost-kinda-smile of greeting, dear _god_. 

Stiles' swallows, distracting himself with leaning down to unclip Zeph's leash. It's possible that he somehow… _under-remembered_ how pretty Pretty Man is. How is that even possible?

He forces himself to move closer, wiping his sweaty hands on his own shorts and plopping down next to Pretty Man on the bench. And then he opens his mouth.

"So, Mr Peanutbutter. Does that make you a cartoon horse-man fan or a sandwich spread fan?"

He half expects Pretty Man to ditch him for his underwhelming icebreaker—dear god, small talk, why?—but Pretty Man… doesn't. Instead, he just snorts, lifting his right ankle to rest on his left knee. He leans back against the bench, eyes trained on PB, who's graduated to awkwardly following Zeph around as she does her sniffs. Zeph doesn't seem to mind at all, not even when his nose goes right up her butt, which she sometimes has issues with. 

Stiles takes it as another sign and tries not to ogle Pretty Man's leg hair.

"Technically, both," Pretty Man says. "But in terms of PB's origins, cartoon man-horse. Mostly shortened to PB because the full thing is a bit of a mouthful."

"I'm definitely down with a mouthful," Stiles says confidently, unable to resist that opening, or to tamp down on his grin. 

Pretty Man raises his eyebrows, as is his wont. Stiles can't tell whether it's in annoyance, amusement or because Stiles has disturbed him in some way. Maybe a mixture of all three? He might be jumping ahead of himself here, but he looks forward to the day when he's familiar enough with Pretty Man's facial tics to able to translate them all at a glance. Which will definitely happen, if Stiles has anything to do with it. If he was back in high school, he'd already mentally be drawing up a six-month plan, but he tries to be at least a little less obsessive and creepy these days. For now he'll stick with awkward innuendo, and googling much less cringey discussion openers. 

"I'm not surprised," Pretty Man says, eyes flicking lightning-fast to Stiles' mouth before focusing back on PB. "Do you ever shut it?"

Stiles shrugs, his heart rate ticking up a few notches, because that was—that was definitely flirting. There was _mouth-watching_. Pretty Man likes his _mouth_. Stiles clears his throat, shifting on the bench, trying to sound casual when he says, "Eh, seems unnecessary."

"Obviously."

They're quiet for a few moments, and Stiles waits in case there might be more flirting... But alas, disappointingly, there is not. Pretty Man seems content to just sit and watch PB do his park thang. Which at the moment involves rolling around, hopefully, as always, in something not-disgusting. Although Stiles probably wouldn't mind watching Pretty Man give PB a bath…

He shakes his head, willing his brain to stop being so thirsty, and drums his palms on his thighs as he looks around for Zeph. She's hard to spot sometimes, her black coat excellent at blending into the shadows, but after a few moments he sees her at the other end of the park, mid-poop. Stiles sighs. How does she always manage to do her business as far away from him as possible? And today, too, when he could be spending his time with Pretty Man. She's the _worst_ wingman. He pats his pockets down, pulling out a bag and shaking it open flamboyantly. 

"Duty calls."

Pretty Man snickers. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows in question.

"Doodie," he explains, shrugging.

Stiles stares at him. There are so many things he wants to say right now. Only two of them are safe for work, and only one of them is appropriate to say to a person he's met a total of two times. "Shakespeare's wig has been officially snatched," he settles on, which was dumb, because Pretty Man does _not_ seem like a person who keeps up with popular internet slang. Stiles is barely even that person, he just likes to know what's up with the kids so he can say stuff ironically and then get a laugh. 

It's a good system. Usually.

"Did Shakespeare wear wigs?" Pretty Man asks. It's painfully earnest. Stiles wants to stroke his stubble comfortingly.

"Don't worry about it, just a stupid— meme thing, just— I'll be back," he says, then jumps up and hurries over to the approximate location of Zeph's shit before he can get into anymore of his own. He lingers for a few minutes, taking a few breaths, trying to figure out a way to _not_ crash and burn with Pretty Man. Why is it so difficult for him to just act like a normal person?

He takes a few deep breaths. On the other hand, at least Pretty Man is getting the full Stilinski experience. May as well let people know from the start what they're getting into. 

Yep.

Grimacing, Stiles stops off by the trash can to deposit the poop bag and heads back over to the bench. Zeph has looped back around by now and is doing her best work with Pretty Man, leaning into his legs, mouth open in bliss as he runs his hands repeatedly down her back.

"Shameless," Stiles says, shaking his head but unable to help his grin. Zeph wags at him as he approaches and noses into his palm when he sits, but she's almost immediately focused back on Pretty Man. Stiles can't blame her. "What a floozy."

"Takes two to tango," Pretty Man says, moving up to rub at her ears.

"Hey, I'm not shaming her. If I was that beautiful I'd be using it to my advantage too."

"I'm sure you do fine," Pretty Man comments, but before Stiles' brain can sound the alarm and overanalyse it, Pretty Man is continuing, "How old is she?"

"Um—" Stiles clears his throat. "She turned eight a few months ago."

He strokes over her muzzle, and she shifts to sit on his feet and stare adoringly up at him. "Still a spring chicken, hey girl?" he says quietly.

"She's been grey since I got her, when she was four." Stiles watches Pretty Man love on his dog for a few more moments before he has to look away. PB is sitting a few yards away, in the shade, chewing on a stick. He seems totally disinterested in everything around them. "PB doesn't like people as much?"

"Not really. He's not really a cuddly dog. Doesn't mind if I pat him, but he could take it or leave it. And he doesn't really trust anyone else enough. The only person he really trusted was—" He cuts himself off, giving Zeph one last pat to her flank before nudging her away. "Go on now, go play."

She waits a few moments, then when it becomes no more pats will be forthcoming, looks to Stiles. He holds out his open palms, like he does when he's letting her know there's no more treats coming, and she huffs and trots over to PB. She stands over him for a few moments, eyeing his stick, and he stops chewing but keeps his mouth on it, waiting for her to make a move. She doesn't, though, in the end, and instead wanders off to have a drink from the water fountain.

Stiles unclenches and lets out a breath. "She's fine like ninety percent of the time, but as she's got older she's got a little more possessive."

Pretty Man nods. "I can relate. You should see me if anyone uses my coffee. I've started hiding it in my office."

Stiles can think of at least one other thing he'd like Pretty Man to possess. "Well— that shit's expensive, and considering coffee is the only way I seem to be able to get through the day, that seems perfectly reasonable. What do you do?"

He pulls a face. "Nothing exciting. Lawyer."

"Please tell me not a defense lawyer." Off Derek's look, he points to himself, says, "Sheriff's kid. I might actually be committing a sin just speaking to you."

"Nothing sinful about me," he says. Stiles respectfully disagrees. "I'm in property law. So if you ever wanna buy some land, feel free to speak to me all you want."

"Only then?" Stiles knows he's pushing his luck but— he needs to know. If this is real flirting, if this could maybe possibly _maybe_ one day end up—

Pretty Man actually swivels his whole body to face him, a half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I've been known to make exceptions for the owners of good dogs."

"But that's everyone who owns a dog," Stiles points out.

"Not everyone," Pretty Man disagrees, giving Stiles a sexy little up-down before he slips his sunglasses from his collar and slides them on, turning his attention back to the park.

Stiles gapes.

He's still gaping, trying desperately to process everything, a few moments later when Pretty Man stands up, rubs his hands down his thighs and says something about having to get home.

Stiles barely manages to close his mouth and lift his hand in goodbye.

∪･ω･∪

"Have you found out his name yet?" Lydia asks. She's curled up on the couch, watching Fleabag for what must be the fourth time and pretending she doesn't identify with any of the characters, and Zeph jumps up next to her and sprawls out over her legs.

"I thought we said no furniture," Stiles says, like he hasn't been secretly letting Zeph up on the couch whenever Lydia isn't home.

Lydia ignores him. "Name?"

"Not yet." He drops down onto the floor, rests his head against the front of the armrest. "You don't just _exchange names_ at the dog park, Lydia. There's a process."

"Stop using fake dog park etiquette to chicken out." She pokes him in the temple with her big toe. She's wearing socks even though it's the middle of summer because she absolutely _hates_ feet, rarely cuts her own toe nails and never 'has time' for a pedicure. Stiles is honestly just so relieved she has a physical flaw that he never remembers to tease her for it. "_Ask. Him. His. Name_." Each new word comes with a new poke.

Stiles shoves her feet away. "Alright, god! Fuck you, I'll ask him." He levers himself up, intent on finding something (anything) to eat in the kitchen. "And I won't tell you what it is if you bug me about it again."

Lydia gives him the finger, but he ignores her, stomping into the kitchen to ransack her 'secret' stash of menstruation munchies. She deserves it, because she's right but she's being so obnoxious about it. Besides, she stole his last few chicken nuggets, even though she _says_ that processed meats are akin to the devil's flesh. 

He rips open a packet of peanut butter M&M's and glares in her direction, but she's busy pretending not to care, despite the fact that he's viciously crunching as loud as possible.

The thing is, Stiles is actually used to being around Pretty People. His high school graduating class was full of Pretty People, and once he and Lydia became proper friends in junior year, he had no choice but to be surrounded by them. (Really, it was his cross to bear.) In his very first month of college, he saved one sorority girl from getting a direct hit in the head by an errant football, and suddenly he was best friends with everyone in Alpha Phi, and invited to all their parties. It took him the whole of freshman year to discover it wasn't really his scene, and by then he'd already locked down a bunch of experience with Pretty People of all persuasions, so… 

So, the Prettiness of a Person hasn't really had an effect on him in a long time. Not really. There's more to life than a random assortment of body parts, especially if you're looking for more than just a quick fuck.

It's just… Pretty Man, though. He's just… he's an exception, he's every exception. He's _exceptional_. 

And Stiles really does need to learn his name. And hopefully everything else about him.

But first: name.

There are several approaches Stiles could take. Usually, he's in favour of the 'hope it resolves itself but if not then get someone else to force it' approach, but he has a feeling that won't work with Pretty Man. Pretty Man seems like a direct kind of dude, which means Stiles should probably just offer his hand and then his name (and _then_ take Pretty Man's hand... and also his last name… because marriage…). 

So at the usual time the next day, Stiles puts poop bags and dog treats in his pockets, loads Zeph into the Jeep, and heads to the dog park as a man on a mission.

Except.

Except when he gets there, there's zero sign of Pretty Man. In fact, Stiles spends a whole hour at the park as the sole human with an increasingly bored Zeph. Her sniffing lasts for eleven minutes, and she spends the rest of the time trying to entice Stiles to take her somewhere else more exciting.

And then Stiles doesn't see Pretty Man for a whole week.

∪･ω･∪

"Stop moping," Lydia says, flicking him in the temple. "You only just met this guy."

"I'm— it's not—" He swats her hand away, huffing out a breath. "It's only part that. A really tiny, insignificant, not-pathetic part."

"What's the other part? Anything I can help with?" She presses her front to his back, leaning over him to see what he's doing. Lydia pays more rent so Stiles was quite happy to let her have the biggest bedroom, but the result is that his room doesn't have space for a desk, and instead he uses the tiny dining table. He only works from home a few times a month, and Lydia always gives him a wide berth when he does, but obviously she's bored today. She's been roaming the house, pretending to do chores. Stiles wants to tell her that picking up a duster, drifting it over the TV and then putting it down is not dusting, but Stiles also wants to get this stupid fucking project done.

"Lydia," Stiles says patiently, "do I ever offer to 'help' you when you're working?"

He feels her shrug. "No. But it's not like you could anyway." She's quiet for another few moments, watching him adjust the stupid fucking red in his stupid fucking logo design from carmine red to ruby red despite the fact that they'll be _exactly the same_ to the human eye. "Why are you doing the logo, I thought you were just doing the coding for the website?"

"It was _supposed_ to be a quick lil mockup, but then James quit, Adam fucked off on holiday, and apparently I'm the only one left who knows how to use Photoshop. Which is bullshit, because last week I watched Lance the Human Laxative edit the faces of his BFFs onto Playboy models for three hours. There was _giggling_, Lydia. Have you ever heard a forty-four year old man giggle?" He shivers. "So fucking disturbing. Anyway so now I'm doing the work of three people for the fussiest clients ever, and if they don't keep giving me contradictory feedback I'm gonna shove this logo right up their—"

"Okay, so I think we need to step away from the Macbook," she says firmly, gently prying his fingers away from the mouse, "and venture into the outside world."

He sighs. "I get it, you're like, trying to be nice and shit, and I should probably sit back and bask in this rare opportunity, but I really need to get this done."

"And it will get done. Later, once you've taken some space from it."

Stiles sighs again. He hates that she's right. "Fine. I guess Zeph needs a walk."

"And that's also a hard no." Lydia perches on the edge of the table, and nudges Stiles hard until he looks up at her. "All you've been doing is working and pining. The only living creatures you've seen are me and your dog. _Go away_. For a _while_. Visit your dad, go see a movie, something, _anything_. You're driving me crazy."

He flutters his eyelashes at her. "With worry, right? Because you love and care about me so much?"

"Sure." She pats his head condescendingly. "Let us all pretend that's why."

∪･ω･∪

Visiting his dad is the cheapest and least physically taxing of Lydia's suggestions, so Stiles takes his dad some lunch. They usually have a standing appointment every Sunday, but with Stiles' project and his dad's 'new friend' that he's started seeing a lot of (like everyone except Scott doesn't know it's Melissa, Stiles has no idea who they're trying to fool), it's been a few weeks. When Stiles pushes into the station, pizza box in hand, his dad doesn't even look exasperated by his presence.

Although that really might just be the pizza.

Well, joke's on him. It's gluten-free _and_ vegan.

And still delicious, Stiles can't even lie, somehow Boyd just makes the most amazing food and Stiles kind of wants to marry him? And also flee in terror from him, but. 

Stiles has somewhat of a type. 

"Hey kiddo," his dad says warmly, going in for a hug but pulling back at the last second, swooping in to pluck the pizza box from Stiles' hands instead. "Thanks for this, see you on Sunday, bye." He starts heading back to his office.

"No problem daddio," Stiles calls after him, pitching his voice just loud enough for the entire station to hear him follow up with, "I bought enough for both you and Melissa, so—"

His dad pulls up short and whirls back, glaring daggers at Stiles before grabbing his earlobe with his free hand and dragging him down through the bullpen. Stiles goes with it, waving at Parrish on their way, and his dad pulls him inside his office and plonks him down at his desk.

"What's the deal anyway, everyone knows you and Mel are cuddle-buddies," Stiles says, rubbing his ear as his dad sits opposite him, glare intensifying. "You're a cop, your co-workers would be pretty shitty if they didn't pick up on your happy little post-text face and adorable attempts at furtive dates." He leans over and flips open the pizza box, dragging half the slices towards himself. "Tara told me last week that a car with a description and number plate veeeery similar-slash-identical to Melissa's was spotted up at Makeout Point. On your night off. And you weren't home. Or at work. And since we don't go to bars because we're sober—"

"I get it, I get it, god. You need a hobby, kid," his dad grumps, taking a sullen bite of his own slice. "Or your own relationship."

"A _ha_!" Stiles cries, slapping a hand against the table top, upending a pen cup. "So you admit it! It's a relationship!"

"Yep, you're a master interrogator. You also have tomato sauce all over your face."

Stiles narrows his eyes. He can't feel anything, but… "Lie."

His dad shrugs. "Okay," he says placidly.

Stiles glances at the small box of tissues on his dad's desk.

His dad takes another bite.

Stiles is pretty sure he's lying, but he's also let Stiles walk around all day with chocolate on his cheek. Several times. The last time it happened he was twenty five years old. At his twenty fifth birthday party, to be exact.

"Ugh." Stiles groans, grabs a tissue, runs it over his mouth, and whips it away to check it.

It's clean.

"Whoops," his dad says, smirking, and Stiles throws the tissue at his head.

∪･ω･∪

Irritatingly, Stiles does feel a lot better after spending some time with his dad. He always does, but since this time he also got to spend the entire hour teasing him, and he _won_ because his dad is not good at combating Stiles' wit beyond cheap tricks, he feels extra energised. He's gonna kick this project's _ass_.

But then he gets home, and unlocks the front door, and Lydia is standing in the middle of the room like she's been waiting for him, arms crossed and expression smug.

"Hi," Stiles says slowly, immediately on high alert. An overtly smug Lydia is a terrifying Lydia. This was a lesson he learned the hard way, and one he'll never forget.

"Hello," she says pleasantly. "Do come in."

"In… to my own house? I was planning on it. Thanks." He edges in, warily closing the door behind him.

"So. Guess where I went while you were gone," she says, in a way that definitely means she expects him not to guess at all, and to have somehow already intuited the answer.

Stiles can't help the feeling that this is, somehow, an important test. An important test he will most definitely fail, because how the fuck does he know what Lydia does with her spare time? Lydia loves being enigmatic. Sometimes she'll come home, Stiles will ask her where she went, and she'll just say something like, "If you didn't see me leave, was I ever really gone?" and then float into her room. And Stiles will legitimately be left wondering if he really did imagine her leaving.

He clears his throat. "Out?" he guesses.

"Very good. How about we try to use those observation skills we're so proud of?"

Stiles moves closer. Her hair is in a ponytail. She's wearing a sporty-looking bra and leggings, but also her outside sneakers (black), not her inside ones (neon pink). He narrows his eyes.

"You didn't," he says. He pushes past her, heading straight for Zeph who's panting on the couch, but it's not her _I'm hot_ pant, it's her _I'm exhausted_ pant. He pats over her head and she wags tiredly, at a half-speed, and isn't that just the _smoking gun_. "Betrayal!" Stiles hisses, before whirling back to Lydia. "He was there, wasn't he?!"

She looks up from her nails. "There were lots of people at the park, it was a beautiful day. You'll have to be more specific."

"Lydia, seriously? Seriously, Lydia?"

"I can't help it if an attractive, bearded man was there and I saw him and cornered him and made him talk to me for fifteen minutes, Stiles. It's what anyone would have done."

"Yes! Exactly! It's what _I've_ done, multiple times, and you've given me shit for it, multiple times!"

"I would never do that to you, we're best friends," she says dismissively.

Stiles can _feel_ his left eye twitching. He takes a deep, long breath. "Intellectually, I know it's impossible for you to have orchestrated this. Yet somehow, there's a part of me that knows better than to doubt you in any way." He shakes his head and moves over to the table, dropping down in front of his laptop.

Lydia sighs. "You're right, Stiles, I totally planned this. I'm an evil genius."

Stiles is… confused. Because on a surface level, the words themselves seem like they're definitely sarcastic. But the tone she used was flat. Serious. Definitively unsarcastic. He squints. "Um."

"Oh my— Stiles! Of course I planned this! I'm bored and you're entertaining." She shrugs daintily, pushing her ponytail over her shoulder. "But I'm not a monster, I was just… interested."

"You. Interested. In my life?" He's even more confused now. He and Lydia are friends in that way where like… they tell each other almost everything, and what isn't told is discovered through the simple act of sharing an apartment, but they never _interfere_ in whatever stupid shit the other person is doing. Help them if they ask for it, hell yeah. Purposely intrude, hell no—especially Lydia, who sometimes still likes to pretend she has no feelings and doesn't care about anyone or anything else. Sometimes she tries to ignore the fact that she's been actively caring about Stiles since junior year of high school, when her parents divorced, she and her mom moved to poor side (aka the Stilinski side) of Beacon Hills. Lydia had preemptively divorced the popular crowd before they could ditch her, and Stiles has never in his life been more shocked than he was the day she showed up at his front door, a month before finals, and told him he was going to be her study buddy. And then they became actual legit buddy-buddies. And then they realised they _liked_ each other. In a _best friend_ type of way.

It was a very confusing time. But also an awesome time, considering they both got into the same college and it just made things so much easier to adjust to. There was a period in Stiles' senior year when they drifted apart, and they tried living separately, but it didn't last long and now they're back in Beacon Hills together. Stiles is working a job he resents because he had unrealistic romantic notions about a career that mainly involves steadily making his work worse for obnoxious clients who think they know better, and Lydia is doing something she either can't or won't (or both) talk about—not that he would probably even get it anyway, their intelligence overlaps maybe forty two percent of the time. They co-parent a dog; they're both bisexual yet tragically single; they thought about dating each other a whole of one time before they got into a big fight about it and decided it would be unwise to go back to that dark, sordid place; and they both refuse to watch Game of Thrones no matter how many different people badger them about it.

"My interest may be limited, but it happens sometimes," she allows. "Predominantly when you actually admit to liking a person, since it happens so rarely."

He has to give her that one. He _does_ hate most people. "They're just so hateable though," he mutters.

"I agree, obviously." She pauses to perch on the back of the couch, looking like her next sentence is paining her greatly to say. "But. Dog park guy. I… didn't hate him either."

"_Right_?" he says, pointing in her face, momentarily forgetting her vehement No Face Pointing rule, because _vindication_. "Didn't I say so?"

His hands get slapped away immediately, but she's still trying to make it up to him so all he gets is a lil glare. Just a baby one. "See, aren't you glad I invaded your privacy, now?"

"Pushing it, Lyds."

"So," she says casually, "I guess this means you don't wanna know all the info I found out about him, then. Including his name."

Stiles doesn't even fully register how quickly he's jerked to attention until his limbs are aching with the sudden movement. "What? His— what?"

"His moniker. The proper noun by which he is addressed. The most basic thing you can learn about a person, and yet somehow the one thing you don't know."

"Hey, there are lots of things I don't know! Besides, it's awkward now, I can't just—" He jumps up, agitated suddenly, rubbing his hands compulsively over his thighs. This, this is not an occurrence he ever foresaw. What is even happening here? Since when did his dog park life merge with his normal life? Pretty Man is like this… mystical nymph unicorn fairy he gets to see a few times a week. Lydia having met him too feels wrong, for some reason. Her finding out things about him first seems especially Wrong. "You really know his name? He told you?"

"I _asked_ him. Like a normal person."

"This is not a normal situation, Lydia! He's my mystical nymph unicorn fairy! You don't just _ask_ these creatures for their personal details!"

Lydia says nothing. 

He finally looks at her to see her staring at him with distaste, and he slumps. "I know. I'm being stupid."

"Honestly Stiles, it's fine."

Stiles is dubious. He knows when he's being ridiculous. He heard what he just said.

"It is, as long as what you just said never leaves this room. And I'll never tell anyone, so." She shrugs one shoulder. "You haven't had a crush on anyone in a long time. I think we all forgot how deep you can get. Lucky for you, now you're older, more experienced, and you have me on your side." She grabs his hand and drags him over to the couch, forcing him down onto it. Her hand rubs down his back for a few moments. "You've listened to me rant many a time about my stupid dalliances. I can listen to you wax lyrical about Derek and help you get it out of your system. I won't even hold it against you."

It takes Stiles a few moments—he's busy being emotionally touched by this rare outward display of affection, he's got an excuse—but finally he catches up and— 

"Derek?" he asks.

"I'm being so nice to you today," Lydia says magnanimously. "I was gonna make you work for it, but you're just too pathetic for it to be fun."

Stiles' answering grin is slow but unstoppable, and god he wants to _kiss her_ right now, so he leans closer to her, lips puckering obnoxiously.

"Do not! Stiles, don't you da—" 

She jumps up, tries to vault over the arm of the couch, but he yanks her back and plants a big, slobbery kiss on her cheek, and she lets it happen, unable to fake anymore protests around her laughter.

∪･ω･∪

Stiles finally sees Derek again at the dog park five days later. At first, he thinks Derek might be coming over to greet him. He's never done it before, and it's pretty cute, so Stiles waves goofily between sliding out of the Jeep and getting Zeph out. It isn't until he's almost at the childproof gate (which, embarrassingly, had taken Stiles a few weeks to get the hang of) that he realises Derek isn't even looking at him, hasn't even registered he's there. He'd be offended, but the panicked look on Derek's face is far too distressing for offence.

"Dude, you okay?" Stiles calls, pausing at the fence. Zeph is going nuts upon seeing PB, but PB is strangely docile, and there's a weird red mark near his neck, right between his shoulder blades. It looks wet, the fur all matted, and—

"What the fuck, is that _blood_?" Stiles blurts out, as the stain slowly spreads into PB's fur. "What the hell happened?" Stiles wrenches his eyes away from the blood—god, why is blood on the outside of a body so gross and disturbing—and up to Derek's face.

"I don't— I'm sorry Stiles, I can't— PB needs— He got bitten." Derek glances wildly between Stiles' hand on the gate and the street behind him. "We walked here, I need to figure out how to get him to the vet but I—"

"I got it," Stiles says firmly, looping Zeph's lead around the fence, tying her to it before holding the gate open for Derek and PB. "My buddy's a vet, he's literally minutes away. You and PB set up in the backseat." He presses his keys into Derek's hand and nudges him along. 

Derek goes automatically, carefully ushering PB in front of him. Stiles crouches down next to Zeph, who is _so_ excited to be out for walkies but _so_ confused that things aren't happening how they usually happen, and they watch as Derek effortlessly lifts PB up into the Jeep.

Stiles rubs Zeph's ears. "Sorry things aren't going to plan, babe," he tells her, unhooking her lead. She strains towards the park, and Stiles begins the arduous process of coaxing her back to the car.

∪･ω･∪

The drive to the vet is quiet. Derek's in the back seat with PB's head on his lap, murmuring soothingly and smoothing a hand down his flank over and over. Zeph's in shotgun, but she hates the front seat with a passion because she's so unsteady, and she spends the whole ride cringing and panting and waiting desperately for it to end.

When they turn into the vet parking lot Stiles has barely pulled into a shady spot and put the Jeep in park before Derek's out of the car and lifting PB out, heading inside without a backwards glance.

"Cool," Stiles says to Zeph, who just stares at him pleadingly. He dithers for a few moments, wondering if he should like… should he leave? Derek still needs a lift home, but surely he's got someone else to call, right? Stiles hanging around is actually probably maybe even kind of weird. They're just acquaintances who met through their dogs. But also, Derek seemed really distressed, and Stiles isn't sure he wants to leave him without knowing PB is okay. He wastes a few more minutes, getting Zeph into the back seat where she can spread out, and giving her some treats. She takes the treats because she's half Lab, but in a way that Stiles knows she would reject them on principle if she could. "I know, I know," he says. "I dangled the sniffs and zoomies in front of you and then ripped them away, I'm the worst."

Zeph takes three more treats in agreement, and then Stiles runs out of both treats and excuses to stick around. He's just about to hop back into the front when Derek shoves the vet doors open and stomps outside, more tense than Stiles has ever seen him. He spots Stiles and makes his way over.

"Your friend kicked me out," he grits out, glaring at Stiles, like it's somehow his fault.

Stiles raises his eyebrows and waits. Scott can be oblivious when it comes to humans, but with animals he's a bleeding heart all the way. No way would he have done something that wasn't in the express interest of PB's wellbeing.

Derek deflates a little, leaning back against the Jeep. "He said my energy was upsetting PB. He was right." He sighs and rubs at his forehead.

"But PB's fine though?" Stiles probes, since he still really has no idea what's going on.

"He'll have a bald patch and he'll have to take some antibiotics, but he's fine. It's not bad. It was just a little misunderstanding over a ball."

"Ah, I've heard that can happen," Stiles says, miraculously managing to constrain his innuendo. He's incredibly proud of himself, even if Derek looks at him like he knows what just happened, anyway.

"Thanks, by the way," Derek says gruffly, almost a thoughtless throwaway line, if not for the way his voice cracks a little. "I know I might seem—" He clears his throat. "PB was my older sister's, before he was mine. When she— he… helped, and he's kind of— all I have left. Of her."

Stiles nods. "All good, big guy," he says softly. "All good. I'm just glad you're both okay."

There's another quiet spell, filled with Zeph's impatient panting and Derek's deep breaths, before Derek suddenly pushes away from the Jeep and crosses his arms. "You probably need to go. If you need to go, you should go, you don't need to—not go."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Eloquent as ever, dude. But I can stay, drop you both home if you want?"

"Don't worry about it," Derek says quickly. "I messaged my younger sister, she's coming to pick us up. She'll bitch about getting PB's slobber on her windows but she's used to it."

"Okay, well. I'll see you at the park? Obviously not today or tomorrow, but soon?"

"I haven't been scared off, Stiles," Derek says. "I think we'll just have a few days' rest, then figure out what time Dragon the Rottweiler/ridgeback frequents the park, and just… not go at those times."

"So, next week maybe."

"Maybe."

Stiles nods. A few too many times. Derek's being evasive, but he doesn't have to not be evasive. Stiles is just some dog park guy, Derek probably doesn't even—

"You should give me your number," Derek blurts out, and Stiles— 

Stiles tries to stave off the big, scary grin he can feel threatening to break through. "Should I?"

Derek is staring resolutely off into the distance somewhere. Somewhere, anywhere but at Stiles. It's very cute. "So I can text. You."

"Text me?"

"Give you updates about PB. Organise a play date." He jerks his chin at Zeph, shifting awkwardly in place. "PB likes Zeph."

"Well, Zeph likes PB too." He lets himself smile now, as Derek unlocks his phone and passes it over, phone app open. Stiles creates a new contact, pausing before typing 'Zeph's Dad (Stiles)' and then adding his number. When he hands it back, their thumbs brush.

Stiles likes Derek's thumbs.

"So you'll text." Stiles raises his eyebrows challengingly.

Derek rolls his eyes, but he presses his hand over his heart. "I'll text." With that, he gives both Stiles and Zeph an awkward wave and heads back inside.

Stiles sighs wistfully. "He's not gonna text."

∪･ω･∪

Stiles is, for once, wrong.

Because Derek texts.

That night, to both Stiles' and Lydia's shock and delight, _Derek texts_. He texts _three times_. 

The first says _He wouldn't stop scratching._

The second is a photo of PB. He's sitting on a tiled kitchen floor, smizing over his shoulder like Tyra Banks, wearing a hot dog costume.

"Oh my goddddd," Stiles breathes, showing the screen to Lydia.

She sighs, in that way she does when something is so cute that she has no idea how to deal with it.

Then the third text comes through, and it's actually a video. A video of PB, dressed as a hot dog, eating a hot dog, which is just magnificent in and of itself. Then the hot dog pops out of the bun and slides across the floor, and the last minute of the video is PB trying desperately to get the meat in his mouth, but it just keeps sliding, and he doesn't catch it until Derek's hand dips into frame, picks it up and feeds it to him. PB _launches_ himself at the food. Derek nearly gets his hand ripped off, swears, and drops his phone, ending the video, and Stiles laughs so hard he nearly pisses himself, barely making it to the bathroom in time.

∪･ω･∪

News of PB getting bitten spreads fast. Stiles is back at the dog park the next morning to make up for Zeph's missed session, and it's all anyone can talk about.

"I heard you were there," Byron the beagle's owner says, about five seconds after Stiles has come through the gate and let Zeph off her leash.

Stiles blinks. "Sorry?"

"The fight. You saw it, right? What happened?" Her eyes shine bright with the promise of choice dirt, and Stiles glances behind her to where the rest of the morning regulars are clustered not far away, trying desperately to make it seem like they're not clustering. The constant swivelling of grey heads in his direction is a little bit of a tip off. Also, none of them have ever bothered to speak to him before. Maybe once when Stiles passed back a frisbee after Zeph stole it, and got a terse muttered 'thanks' in response, but other than that, nada. Now he's suddenly the Beacon Hills gossip mill's Most Wanted. 

He shrugs. "Nope. Didn't see a thing."

She frowns. "But Sylvia says she saw you drive away with King Gorge."

"King— what?"

"King Gorge. The gorgeous guy with the Lab. It was his dog that got bit, right?"

Now, Stiles can't contain his glare. That is the most insulting, most reductive— how _dare_ these people come up with a wittier nickname than Stiles'? It's not fair, and it's not _right_.

The woman is still going on about something, so Stiles waves his hands in her face and she startles, immediately shutting up.

"Yeah, good, so, getting something straight? A, pretty sure it wasn't even really a fight, just a stupid misunderstanding. B, no, I didn't see anything, and C, even if I had I wouldn't talk to anyone here about it. Comprende?"

The way her face transitions into some amorphous combination of mortified and offended is probably amusing, to someone. Not to Stiles. Stiles just wants her to shut up and go away.

It occurs to him briefly that making enemies at the dog park is probably not a good idea, but Stiles makes enemies everywhere. His mom was the same, apparently. He's simply carrying on the work in her good name.

And that's exactly what he'll tell his dad if this ever gets back to him.

Before the woman can—well, probably slap him into next week, if the more and more incensed look on her face is any indication, Stiles hastily backs up and makes his way to the other side of the park. Zeph prefers sniffing over there, anyway.

He yanks out his phone on the way and pulls up his text thread with Derek.

_Old biddies @ dog park have a great nickname for you  
It's not offensive at all_

A response comes immediately. _I thought it was pretty flattering._

Stiles' fingers swipe so fast his screen they're practically a blur. _u KNOW about it??????  
And you haven't KILLED any of them????_

_PB likes Sylvia's dachshund._

There's about ten seconds of nothing from Derek, and then a video pops up. Stiles really should check his data to make sure he can download it, but also he very much doesn't care. He plays the video.

It's twenty-two pure, blissful seconds of PB and a tiny miniature dachshund rolling around in the grass. PB is being so, so gentle with the dachshund, and it's the _cutest thing Stiles has ever seen_.

In the last four seconds, the dachshund does a little tumble over PB's paw, and there's a laugh from the person filming before the video cuts out. A _laugh_. _Derek's laugh_.

Stiles saves the video and forgets to respond to Derek because he's so busy rewatching it.

∪･ω･∪

_Remind me to never ever EVER go shopping with Lydia again_

Stiles sends the message to Derek while he's slouched over the handlebars of his shopping cart, lazily swiping at the keyboard. Lydia has wandered off to get something from another aisle and now he can finally relax, so he's taking full advantage of this thirty second window. For some reason, Lydia gets really intense when they go grocery shopping, and she insists they go together even though it's a hellish experience for both of them. Stiles can already feel the beginnings of a headache clawing at his temples. 

Mercifully, Derek texts back pretty quickly. It's probably the quickest he's responded in the week they've been messaging, and Stiles is very grateful for the distraction. He glances around carefully to make sure Lydia isn't in sight before reading it.

_Your roommate? Why?_

_Derek_  
Oh bless ur heart if only u knew!!!!  
EXCEPT you never will bc on my extremely solid advice if she ever even MENTIONS shopping you will RUN AWAY  
At full speed Derek FULL SPEED 

_She could probably catch me at any speed._

_I highly doubt that she's not exactly built for rapid acceleration  
Her brain yeah her legs nah_

_I'm not really a sprinter either, though. I like to take it slow and steady._

"He's doing this on purpose," Stiles mutters, viciously jabbing at the X-eyed emoji and sending five, trying desperately not to think about ways he could test Derek's _stamina_. And because his timing is inevitably terrible, that's when Lydia comes back with her tiny loaf of gluten-free bread, and he hastily stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie, straightening up and clearing his throat.

"Who's doing what?" she asks lightly, placing the bread safely into the child seat.

"No one's doing anything. I mean, I'm doing things. I'm waiting. For you. And you're here." His phone buzzes, he can feel it against his hip, but he doesn't dare check it.

She arches an eyebrow. "I am here. Are you?"

"I'm standing right in front of you."

Lydia looks down at the list she's compiled on her phone, tapping to delete an entry. "Stiles, I can't have you distracted, this is time-consuming enough to do as it is."

"It's just Derek, I was just asking him something. I can't text people now?" he says, petulant.

"Do not make me seem like a heinous control freak, please. I just want to finish this and get back home." She brushes past him, heading back the way they came. "We forgot something."

He turns the cart around and follows her obediently, scowling at her back. She stops by the canned tuna, tilting her head to check some of the labels, and Stiles taps agitatedly on the handles. 

He's not going to say anything. He's just going to let it go. Getting into a fight with Lydia is never worth it. He's just going to—

"I just don't get why this is always such a big deal," he blurts out. "It's just grocery shopping, and you already have a list. You don't need my opinion. Can't I just be your shopping cart bitch? At least that's fun."

Lydia turns on him, eyebrows frighteningly low, otherwise the epitome of calm. 

Stiles gulps. 

"This is not," she says clearly, "and never has been about fun. This is a _chore_, Stilinski. You make this a chore. I don't want to do this either, and I don't always want to be in charge. It would be quicker if I did it alone but when you don't come along you say I didn't get the right things for you, and when _you_ do it alone you don't get half the things _I_ need, and when we do our own shopping separately you complain that it's a waste of time and then never do yours and eat all of my food anyway. I have to make and remember the list! I have to dictate our path around the store! You get to daydream your way through and ride the shopping cart!" Her voice rises as she continues and at least three people are watching them, but she doesn't seem to care. Lydia stopped caring about what other people think of her a few years ago. Stiles misses the days when she wouldn't fearlessly escalate a fight in the middle of the grocery store. "Do you think I _like_ being this aggressive about groceries? You give me no choice! You make this impossible!"

"O_kay_," he roars back, throwing his arms out, nearly braining some Devenford Prep-capped teenager as they try to get past. The cap makes him wish he hadn't missed. "Fine, _I'm_ the dick, this is a teachable moment for me, I'll try and be more considerate in the future!"

"Good! Thank you!"

They stare at each other for a few moments. Stiles rubs a hand through his hair. Lydia pushes her Apple watch up and down her arm. The teenager approaches them from the other direction this time, warily watching Stiles' hands before hurrying around him again.

Stiles' phone vibrates with another message.

Lydia sniffs. She consults the list again. "You need some more cereal."

"Fine."

She leads the way to the next aisle.

Things remain frosty for a whole two minutes and one and a half aisles before Stiles is practically vibrating with the need to dispel the tension. Tension is usually his best friend. It fuels him. He can eat and breathe tension with almost everyone and not give the slightest of fucks. 

But not with Lydia.

"Hey. So. I honestly didn't realise I was being that obnoxious about it," he says, stopping in front of the shampoos as Lydia intensely examines a bottle. It's all for show, since they both know she orders specialty shampoo from some cruelty-free, eco-friendly place online. "I promise I'll try and be better."

She finally looks at him. She's stone-faced, but her eyes are soft. "Do or do not, Stiles," she says.

"Hmm," he says, squinting at her. "Yoda suits you. Very apt. Must be all the ear-hair you guys have in common."

She punches him in the arm, but her lips are finally twitching. "Just be grateful I _don't_ have ear hair. If I did, you'd be the one trimming it for me."

This much is true. Her feet are literally the only body parts that remain a mystery to him. Once she had a pimple in her underarm that she couldn't get to herself. Stiles still has nightmares about getting hit directly in the eye with its contents. He shivers, then realises she's already turning into the next aisle and hurries to catch up with her. 

"What's next?" 

She consults her list. "Soda."

Stiles is shocked. "I am shocked. _You're_ buying soda?" 

Lydia doesn't even glance his way, suddenly preoccupied with a display of corn chips. Which she also doesn't eat. "I have a friend coming over tomorrow night," she says, way too casually, before adding, "You're not invited."

He highly doubts that scenario will work out in her favour, but that's an issue for Future Stiles. Right now, he needs much more info. She turns down the soda aisle, powering ahead of him, and he leans forward on the cart and glides to catch up with her. "A friend? Who is it?"

"You don't know her," Lydia insists, stopping in front of the diet Coke display.

"How do I not know her? I know everyone."

"It's none of your business." 

"Oh Lydia. Dear, sweet Lydia. Everything is my business, this is a well-established fact." 

"This is not, because you will not be home. She will forever remain a mystery to you, and it will _kill_ you." She smiles sweetly at him, drops two bottles in the cart, and continues down the aisle.

∪･ω･∪

By the time Lydia is cooking for her friend the next evening, she _still_ hasn't divulged anything. It's amazing, honestly, because Stiles has been bugging her for over twenty four hours now and she hasn't said a _word_, and she was right.

It _is_ killing him.

Not only is Lydia Martin an expert at withstanding torture, she can endure it whilst also simultaneously torturing her torturer, and Stiles is gracious enough to admire her for it whilst also being a bitter bitch about it.

When it gets close to her designated go-time of 7pm, Stiles decides he probably should just leave her to it. Because she's actually really fucking nervous.

Stiles didn't know it was possible, but Lydia Martin is _rattled_. Not in a way that anyone else could tell, but Stiles has been her friend for way too long now not to recognise her tics. Hair constantly being pushed behind her ears, that's a big one. Eyes wide, lips pressed together. The arms crossed, glare at _insert vexing thing here_ power stance. Also her clothes—Stiles hasn't seen the bright red lips/short floral dress combo in a long time. At 6:44, she turns the oven down to the lowest setting and faces him. He's sitting at the tiny dining table, chair moved to have the best view of the kitchen. She raises her eyebrows. He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs and getting comfortable.

She sighs, dropping her arms. "Please Stiles." She's obviously serious about this, and he loves her enough to finally back off.

He stands up. He makes his way over to her. He looks at her for a moment. He leans in, kisses her on the temple, and runs his palms down her arms. "It'll be fine. If she doesn't like you, she's an idiot. Sane, probably, but also an idiot."

Lydia rolls her eyes and gives him a gentle shove. "Just go," she says fondly. He turns to leave, but she clears her throat and shoves a container with some of her expensive chocolate chip cookies at him.

"Are these the vegan ones?" he asks, cautiously reaching for it.

"Do you want them or not?" she says impatiently, and in the end, any cookie is better than no cookie. He grabs the container, blows her a kiss, picks up Zeph's lead, and herds Zeph out the door with him before Lydia can even think about taking them back.

∪･ω･∪

The Sheriff of Beacon County apparently shares a similar cookie-related philosophy to his son, because when Stiles shows up at his front door with Zeph's lead in one hand and the cookies in the other, he immediately grabs for the container and whisks it inside. Zeph is a little disappointed, because she was doing her best to look really cute and pettable, but he barely even greeted her. It's rectified, at least, once he settles in his armchair, one cookie in his mouth and another in clutched his vice-like grip, and he starts using his free hand to stroke down her back. She sits on his feet, watching every cookie very, very closely but pretending not to, in case she gets in trouble.

"You should tell her to lay down," Stiles says idly, reclining on the couch. His dad is watching some kind of war documentary, but there's a Yankees game on so Stiles flips the channel over. He's in just the right mood to hate-watch something.

His dad ignores him, and instead pulls Zeph closer to him, leaning over to give her a hug while he rubs her chest. "Walk here?" he asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "Got sexiled. Probs need to go get dinner."

His dad says nothing for a while. Zeph sighs and ends up sprawled over his left foot while he uses his right foot to pat down her side. "Are you… upset, about Lydia dating?"

"Not because of— okay." Stiles mutes the television and props his head up on the arm rest, running his hand through his hair. "It's not Lydia, it's— so, she's got a date over. Which is—awesome, I'm glad she's, like. Doing her thing. And like, I'm not— I don't care what she does, or when she does it, as long as she's happy, but like I got the impression that this is a new thing. Ver— like, _super_ recent. And this woman, her date, is _already_ over at our _house_."

His dad squints. "Well, yeah, kid. That's generally how dates work." 

"But like— _already_? Didn't they only _just_ meet, how the fuck have they progressed so far already? What happened to all the awkward, flirty, weirdly uncertain stages? All that time where you have to try and convince the person you're worth their time?" Though he doubts Lydia has ever had that problem, when has anyone not wanted Lydia? He sighs, flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. The ever-comforting crack in the paint that looks like a dick stares back at him. He forces himself to take a deep breath.

"I'm… sensing this doesn't actually have anything to do with Lydia," his dad says after a few moments.

"Sheriff powers to the rescue!" Stiles says weakly, raising one less-than-triumphant fist. Then he sighs again. "I'm just. There's this— feeling, like. Okay, so like, you know when you meet someone new, and sometimes you're like, 'hmm maybe' but most of the time you're like, 'fuck no, I'd rather date a cactus'?"

"Where is this going, kid?" his dad asks, sounding cautiously amused.

"Shit, no, don't worry, I won't be divulging any weird sex-kinks or whatever, this conversation is strictly romance-focused."

"That's good to know."

"I just mean like… most people I meet, the idea of spending more time with them makes me wanna plunge a huge shard of glass into my chest, right? Like, hard pass, definite no. But there's this guy, he. I've known him like a month, and I'm…" 

His dad hums. "Ah."

"_Right_?" Stiles rolls over, planting his face into the back of the couch. "And it's way too fucking quick for that. Like, a _month_, really? To be all—" He gestures to his chest, to the way it feels like all his organs are all squeezy and/or fluttery every time he even _thinks_ of Derek. "And he probably doesn't even— It's so dumb, but it's like, typical me. Moving too fast, as usual, being too much, as usual."

"Hey," his dad says sharply. "Enough of that self-deprecating bullshit. I'd ask where this is coming from, but we both know I know."

Stiles snorts. Pick a childhood trauma, any trauma. There's more than enough to choose from.

"Being a devoted partner is not a bad thing. Just means that when you're in it, you're _in_ it, and if it falls apart you also have to do more work to get out of it. But you're not as stupid now as you were when you were a teenager—"

"Um, excu— salutatorian, hello?" Stiles sputters.

"I meant emotionally," his dad says, and, well, Stiles has to give him that. "You weren't very good at looking past your own needs, but show me a teenager that is. And you know what, at least you tried. You were proactive. You put yourself out there. And kid, let me tell you, being vulnerable with the right person at the right time is the best thing that will ever happen to you."

"But being vulnerable is so haaaaard," Stiles whines, kicking his legs in protest. "That's when you can get hurt and stuff. I hate getting hurt and stuff."

"Gotta take the bad with the good, that's just how it goes. Can't have one without the other. Can't have darkness without light."

"Darkness is literally the absence of light."

His dad sighs. "This is why I usually try and leave the pep talks to Lydia. You give her way less shit." He leans over, tapping Stiles' foot, and Stiles levers himself up and scoots closer. "Honestly, though? If you like this guy, then isn't it something worth trying for? If he says no, so what? It'll be awkward for a while. You're great at awkward. But you won't know unless you try."

"Do or do not," Stiles murmurs, thinking back to Lydia's spookily similar advice.

His dad just nods, seemingly satisfied that Dadvice Time is over, and Stiles burrows back into the couch, trying not to brood but unable to stop himself. Lydia and his dad are the smartest people he knows. If they're both suggesting something, then maybe it possibly might have some merit, no matter how much his brain just wants to just bluescreen at the idea of emotional honesty with Derek.

They watch the rest of the game in relative silence, punctuated by his dad's snoring by the time they reach the eighth inning. Stiles has lost interest at that point too, his stomach is growling so loud it makes Zeph jump, and he pets her head on his way into the kitchen. He really can't be bothered bothered eating food made by someone else now, not even if it was delivered, so he raids his dad's fridge and makes a cheese and pickle sandwich for himself. He feeds exactly no crusts to Zeph, because the crusts are his favourite part, and then, once he's made certain his dad is still asleep, he finishes the tub of Ben & Jerry's in the freezer. He's doing it because he cares, honestly. He dad had cookies, he doesn't also need ice cream. Zeph gets to lick out the container, and then Stiles turns off the TV and wakes his dad up.

"Yo, daddio. I'm heading home. Go to bed, or you'll be taking your back pain out on your deputies tomorrow."

His dad grunts.

"I'm serious. Parrish almost cried last time."

His dad flails a hand out, connecting with Stiles' arm, which he uses to haul him down into a groggy hug. "Meant what I said," he murmurs. "You deserve to be happy."

Stiles squeezes him hard. "Love you, old man."

"Love you too, kid."

Stiles drives home with a heart that feels more full than it has in a long time.

∪･ω･∪

He wakes up early the next morning, because he has a _plan_. A plan involving dogs, Derek, and a thinly-veiled excuse that shamelessly uses the former to spend time with the latter. 

Zeph wouldn't mind, if she could understand. She loves Stiles, and wants him to be happy. He's sure of that.

Stiles knows that Derek wakes up at 5:30am every morning to take PB on a run, so he starts drafting a text at 5:17am, and sends the final version at 5:24am. 

_Morning, Sir Freakishly Early Riser. Question: as I am also up Freakishly Early this morning, wanna exercise the hell-beasts together? I only live a few mins drive away from the preserve. I'll probably slow you down but if you don't mind the company lmk :)_

All he can do now is hope that Derek is the type of person who checks his phone immediately upon waking up. And hope again that Derek also likes him enough to say yes despite the grossly short notice.

Anyway. He'll fall back asleep if he stays in bed, so he forces himself to get up and go get some breakfast. Lydia's awake already, if the clanging around the kitchen is any indication, so he'll make bacon and interrogate her about her date and—

"Oh shit," he says, upon opening his bedroom door, stepping into the living room, and seeing the person in the kitchen.

The person who is not Lydia. 

The person who is, in fact, a buff, brunette woman. She's wearing a crop top and short shorts. Her hair is loose. One brow is up and the other is hovering over her eye in an unsettlingly familiar expression.

"Um," he says.

"Well said," the woman says, giving him one last up-down before turning back to the stove. _She's_ cooking the bacon. Stiles' bacon. How is she half-naked and cooking bacon and not shrieking every time she gets splattered with boiling hot oil?

Maybe that's just a Stiles thing.

"Thanks," he says reflexively, then shakes his head and forces himself to move closer. "So, you're Lydia's conquest."

"I think you'll find she was mine." The woman glances over her shoulder at him, smirking.

"You had a good time last night, then," Stiles extrapolates, heading to the coffee machine. There's nothing left in it, because there are two steaming mugs set up on the counter, one in Lydia's favourite mug—the one Stiles got made for her, featuring a photoshopped picture of her and Hypatia—and the other in one of Stiles' many, many Mets mugs.

"I'm not telling you anything about our super-hot sex," she says bluntly.

Stiles shrugs, inching around her to the sink to get a glass of water. "That's cool, Lydia will just tell me as soon as you leave."

"That's cool, because if she does that'll be breaking my trust and nothing will ever happen between us again. And trust me, she wants it to happen again. So any creepy little lesbian fantasies you have floating around your brain can chill."

Stiles can only nod obediently, despite having had no such fantasies. He's not sure he's ever met a more hostile person in his life, and he lives with Lydia Martin. "I… will let them know," he says slowly.

"Good." She flips her hair over her shoulder, seeming satisfied, and bends down to give Zeph a little bit of bacon fat. Zeph is super careful and delicate when she accepts snacks, and the woman pets her head gently when she's done chewing. "Who's a good girl," she coos, and Zeph wags, leaning into her legs. If Stiles didn't know that Zeph treats everyone this way, especially when food is involved, he'd almost say they've met before. 

Before he can think too much about it his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he immediately redirects his attention to it, fumbling it out and unlocking it faster than he ever has before.

_Sounds good. Send me your address, I'll be there in twenty. PS. I can't believe you're awake this early, I assume it's the result of an all-nighter? You should give me your coffee order._

"Who are you texting?" the woman asks curiously, interrupting his perfectly lovely Derek-related happy place. "You're smiling. It's creepy."

Stiles rolls his eyes, finishing tapping out his message and pressing send. "No, I'm— It's not— Just, this guy. He's sweet."

The woman snorts, eyeing him knowingly. "And salty, too, no doubt."

"The best flavour combination," Stiles agrees. "Anything else is boring as _fuck_."

"Hmm." She's watching him intensely, now. It's very uncomfortable.

"Okay, well, I'm going to get ready. Enjoy your breakfast."

He hightails it to the bathroom, does his business, brushes his teeth and makes a vague attempt at smoothing down his hair. When he peeks back into the living room, the kitchen is empty and the food is gone, so the woman must be feeding Lydia in bed. Of course Lydia landed an attentive one-night-stand. None of _Stiles'_ short-term conquests have ever bothered to feed him.

Zeph has migrated to his room, laying beside his bed with her eyes half-open. Things aren't following the usual schedule and she's intrigued, just in case it means something nice for her.

"Just you wait, my angel," he croons to her, flapping her ears around gently. "This morning is gonna be the best." 

He kisses the top of her head, then changes quickly into a pair of his old BH lacrosse shorts and a sweat-wicking t-shirt he finds in the bottom of his drawer. It's a little smaller than he remembers, but even this early it's already heating up and if he is going to be running then his underarms will need all the help they can get. By the time he finishes applying roll-on deodorant and tying up the laces of his left shoe, it's been almost twenty minutes and—

The doorbell rings.

Fuck. Trust Derek to be punctual. Who even is punctual these days? Stiles jumps up, tripping slightly over the undone laces of his right shoe, and then tripping fully over Zeph, who leaps up directly in front of him, thrilled at the prospect of a visitor.

"Shit," he bites out, barely stopping himself from falling face-first into the wall. "Zeph, you can't—"

The doorbell rings again.

"I'm coming, fuck, I'm—" He hops around Zeph, levering the door open around her and falling out of his room, but the woman has emerged from Lydia's room and taken it upon herself to answer to the door, which totally isn't weird.

"Oh, hey," she says coolly, leaning against the doorframe, right as Stiles comes up behind her and says, much more enthusiastically, "Derek, hey!"

Derek's face, which had been… confused, for some reason, immediately hardens, and he takes a faltering step back. "What's— what's going on?"

Stiles elbows his way past the woman and steps out onto the porch. "Is PB in the car? I'll just get Zeph's lead."

"No," Derek bites out, sounding _pissed_, and Stiles pauses.

"What's… you okay?"

"You live here?" he asks Stiles.

"Ye-ess?"

"And you," Derek says to the woman, pinning her with his steely gaze, "this was where you had your date last night?"

"Yep," she says. She raises her eyebrows. "What, you don't approve?"

"No," Derek snaps. "Why the fuck would you think—" He cuts himself off, then turns back to Stiles. "What the hell are you playing at?"

Stiles blinks. "I'm. I think I missed something here."

"That," Derek says, pointing a finger at the woman, "is my _sister_. Cora."

"Okay." Derek's eyebrows ascend higher, and he seems to be expecting something more from Stiles, so he adds, "Uh, hey. Nice to meet you."

"You didn't even— you didn't even _introduce_ yourself?" Derek bites out, looking disgustedly at him. "I thought you were—" His mouth snaps shut again, and he stumbles a few more steps back, reaching blindly behind him to unlatch the gate. "I need— some time to— Don't contact me again until I— I have to go." He swings the gate open, stopping for a few moments to look back at Stiles. His mouth is a thin, hard, uncompromising line, but his eyes are _so disappointed_, and it makes Stiles feel awful and ashamed even though he has _absolutely no fucking idea what the hell is happening_.

And then Zeph appears.

She's excited about being outside, so she careens out onto the porch. She's delighted to see Derek, so she zooms over to him. She's thrilled to see the gate is open behind him, so she darts out of it and into the street. She's ecstatic to hear PB barking, so she bolts over to Derek's car.

Where it's parked. On the opposite side of the street. 

"Fuck— Zeph!" Stiles yells frantically, but she's ignoring him, prancing around in the middle of the road, _fuck_, her selective recall is the _fucking worst_. "Zeph, don't— here girl!" He's halfway down their drive before he knows it, but Derek is closer, and Stiles' stomach nearly explodes Alien-style out of his gut when Derek gets to her, barely dragging her out of the way of an oncoming car.

"Derek!" yells Cora, shoving her way past Stiles to get to her brother. By the time Stiles reaches the three of them they're huddled in the drive of the neighbour across the road, Derek petting Zeph, Cora petting Derek. "What the fuck were you thinking," Cora is saying. "Why would you risk your life for a _dog_?"

"Hey," Stiles objects, but there's no fire in it, he's too focused on Zeph for that. Fuck, she nearly got splattered _right in front of him_.

Derek looks up shakily, realises how close Stiles is, and lets go of Zeph. 

Stiles grabs her collar, crouching and hauling her into his arms. She's confused but also never one to say to no to cuddles, and she pushes herself into his trembling hands. "Thank you. You saved her."

"It was my fault," he says gruffly. "I shouldn't have left the gate open."

"I should've trained her better, her recall is so shitty, I just never—" He cuts himself off, letting out a long breath. "Shit, that was an adrenaline rush I didn't need."

"Tell me about it." Cora stands up, brushing off her shorts. "Okay, well I'm going back inside. There's a beautiful woman in an almost-as-beautiful bed waiting for me." She steps into the gutter, exaggeratedly looks both ways before crossing the street, then disappears inside.

Stiles stands too, one hand clamped around Zeph's collar, the other offered out to help Derek up, but Derek doesn't move to take it. He seems to be too busy watching Stiles, a strangely open, vulnerable look on his face. "What?" Stiles asks, suddenly very self-conscious.

"You—" Derek clears his throat. "You're not…"

Stiles half-nods encouragingly.

"Shit, you're not. Oh fuck." Derek's eyes slam closed, and he scoots a few inches further away from Stiles. "I thought you…"

"What, Derek? Just say it, what?"

"I thought _you_ were my sister's date!" he yells, finally jumping up, glaring at Stiles. "I thought _you_ were her date, and I was super pissed off and— upset, so I freaked out, okay? I'm sorry."

Stiles has to take a moment to let that sink in. Because how could Derek even…? And why would he…? How did he…? "You thought _I_… was fucking your sister?"

Derek waves his arms around uselessly, coming the closest he'll probably ever come to flailing. "What was I supposed to think? I come over to your place and she answers the door, looking so satisfied—"

"You _came over_ because I asked you on a _date_! What kind of person would invite their— the person they like over just to, like, _parade_ their harem in front of them?"

"It's been known to happen," Derek says, tone suddenly much softer. There's hurt behind it, something that speaks to past experiences. Stiles' anger immediately subsides, and he suddenly understands Derek's reactions a lot more. "Plus, Cora was being uncharacteristically reticent about her date," Derek adds. "I asked her about it, and she wouldn't tell me anything, and I thought that was maybe why. That _you_ were why, because she knows that I— about you."

"Oh my god, Lydia was super secretive too, what the fuck? What is even happening?" Then it dawns on him. "They did this on _purpose_."

Derek frowns. "They wouldn't—"

"Think about Cora. Now think about what I've told you about Lydia."

Derek's eyes narrow with the realisation. "Those assholes," he breathes.

"Where did they even meet, anyway? And when?"

"Dog park, must be," Derek says.

"Oh my— they've been having _secret dog park rendezvous_? I—" He rubs at his eyes, all the indignation suddenly giving way to exhaustion. It's barely 6am, and he's ready to crawl back into bed. "I can't believe how much better they are at this than us, honestly." 

"I can."

Stiles snorts. He looks down at Zeph, who is starting to get impatient at the lack of activity. He looks back at Derek. "What now?"

He gives a little shrug. "I think I ruined everything quite nicely, don't you?"

"Ruined is a strong word. Personally, I think there's something here, between us, and I don't wanna give up on it yet, so." He takes a step closer, swapping Zeph to his left hand and holding out his right. "Hi. I'm Stiles. I love my dog, I hate my job, and I think you're super attractive in like, every way imaginable." 

Derek's eyebrows, having raised as high they could whilst Stiles was speaking, begin to descend again, and he grins a little as he also takes a step in, wrapping his hand around Stiles' to give it a firm shake. "I'm Derek. I jump to conclusions sometimes, my sister is actively a terrible person, and I've been awkwardly flirting with you since the day we met."

"A-_ha_!" Stiles crows, dropping Derek's hand to point excitedly at him. "I knew it, I knew it was flirting!"

"I wasn't really trying to be subtle," he says wryly. "There was mouth-watching."

Stiles is feeling very smug right now. He wonders whether he should reveal just how smug he's feeling, before deciding—fuck it. He deserves this smugness. "I noticed," he says smugly, grinning just as smugly. "And I look forward to more of that in the future." Derek's eyes flick down to his mouth immediately. He bites his lip pointedly, and Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles knows he liked it. "So. Still wanna walk the dogs?"

"I wanna do a lot more than that," Derek says, full of promise, but he pulls his keys out and moves over to his car, unlocking the door. PB, who has been patiently watching the drama unfold, sticks his nose out of the window for pats. "But for now, that will do. Meet you there?"

"Definitely," Stiles agrees. "Just gotta do one thing first."

∪･ω･∪

"You're dating Derek's sister?" Stiles screeches, bursting into Lydia's room, not knocking because that's not a thing she deserves right now, and he's so into the idea of yelling at her it takes him a few moments to absorb the scene on the bed.

Lydia is leaning against the headboard. Cora is sitting cross-legged halfway down the bed, Lydia's left foot in her lap. Lydia's right foot is in Cora's left hand, and Cora is using her right hand to. Peel. A huge strip of skin. From the sole of Lydia's foot.

They're both frozen, staring at him. Stiles stares back. The skin flutters in the air.

"Baby foot," Cora says, nonsensically.

"Um," Stiles says, mystefiedly.

"_Stiles_! Get out!" Lydia shrieks, finally reacting, reaching behind her and throwing a pillow at him. "And don't you fucking dare look at my feet!"

He swivels to the side, making use of his long-latent lacrosse skills. The pillow misses, which means he has more than enough opportunity not only to look at her feet, but to also slide his phone out and take _several_ pictures of Lydia, finally, _finally_ doing something weird in her room.

Today is really, truly the best day of his life.

∪･ω･∪

**Author's Note:**

> Because you can never have too many pics of dogs, here's [PB's costume](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/24/e3/87/24e38797e2fe5c7c02877ea134ff1ab4.jpg).
> 
> The curling iron/dildo mixup [origins](https://twitter.com/jameelajamil/status/1047169896054972421).
> 
> [Baby foot](https://www.refinery29.com/en-us/baby-foot-peel-review). 
> 
> Seriously though, [Dylan](https://obrienschicken.tumblr.com/post/125018038088) [looks](https://obrienschicken.tumblr.com/post/126753360533) [so](https://obrienschicken.tumblr.com/post/130486937833) [good](https://obrienschicken.tumblr.com/post/156552458783/obrien-news-dylan-obrien-at-the-nycc-2013-x) [in](https://obrienschicken.tumblr.com/post/167355044248) [blue](https://obrienschicken.tumblr.com/post/159359148163/favorite-celebrity-meme-favorite-appearances).


End file.
